Quitting

For three years and eight months, I had been free of it.

At first, the freedom had not been intentional. A brief illness interrupted the habit, and I stopped abruptly, more from circumstance than discipline. But as I recovered, I saw an opening. I decided to test myself: How long could I continue without the thing I had once treated as indispensable?

The early days were not pure abstinence. I found smaller substitutes and lower doses, ways to whet the appetite without fully satisfying it. Eventually, though, I cut it out entirely. There was one exception, an accidental encounter hidden in something I had consumed without thinking. The reaction was unpleasant enough to clarify the experiment. Whatever this substance had once given me, it also possessed a power I preferred not to hand over so casually.

In its absence, life became more tranquil. My anxiety diminished. My mind felt less agitated, less prone to racing ahead of itself. I grew more comfortable with fatigue and more capable of meeting a difficult morning without immediately reaching for support. Cravings still arrived, as cravings do, but resisting them became a practice. Each refusal was evidence that an urge is not an order.

The Stoics understood this well. Our impressions come to us without permission: a sudden desire, an anxious thought, the promise of a quick comfort. But what follows remains, at least in part, ours to decide. Epictetus urged his students to pause before accepting every impression as true. “I need this,” the mind says. But need is often only desire speaking with confidence.

At the height of my dependence, I indulged four or five times a day. It was no coincidence that this happened during the most anxious and stressful period of my life. I believed I was managing my energy, preparing myself for work, and earning small moments of peace. In reality, I was often medicating unease. The ritual gave me a reason to stop, breathe, and believe that I was beginning again.

Even after quitting, one aspect of it stayed with me: the aroma. I could be near someone enjoying it and pause, almost involuntarily, to breathe it in. Yet I could stop there. That was a satisfying proof of progress. Pleasure itself was not the enemy. The Stoics were not asking us to reject beauty, warmth, or sensory delight. They were asking us not to become enslaved by them.

Perhaps the conditioning began long before the dependence. As an undergraduate, I lived in the Old City with a roaster directly behind my apartment. Each day, its fragrance moved through the building. Though I had not yet developed the habit, the scent found its way into memory. It became associated with mornings, study, movement, and the sense that the next chapter was just around the corner.

Italy this summer finally wore down my resolve – not at once, but over time. After returning home, I bought an espresso machine as a birthday gift for my wife. Three days later, I found myself making my first cup in nearly four years.

As it brewed, the old ceremony returned with startling force: the rich scent, the dark stream falling into the cup, the pale foam collecting on top. Before the first sip, I asked myself whether I truly wanted to begin again. Then I drank. It was hot, bitter, and unexpectedly familiar.

Why do we learn to enjoy bitterness? Maybe it makes pleasure feel more serious. Maybe it offers the illusion of strength. Or maybe we simply grow attached to what has accompanied us through long days, hard seasons, and anxious years.

I carried the drink to the car for my drive to work, then promptly spilled half of it. Thankfully, none touched my clothes. Half a shot later, I was left with a small pleasure and a larger question.

Will this become a daily ritual again, or was it only a moment of weakness at the end of a long, hot summer? I do not know yet. But the test is no longer whether I can avoid coffee forever. It is whether I can meet it with judgment intact; able to enjoy it, refuse it, or set it aside without mistaking comfort for necessity.